My Father worked a full time factory job but also helped feed the family by gigging since before I was born, even during the depression when paying gigs were scarce. At his knee I learned my first chords on a ukulele as scarcely more than a toddler, and making music together was our #1 father-and-son activity for life. Poverty meant that names like “Gibson” or “Gretsch” were nothing more than words in a magazine, photos to dream about. The guitars in my life wore names like “Airline”, "Silvertone", and “Tiesco”. They were of dreadful quality compared to the ones I have today, but they were all I knew.
Dad was proud of my musicality and in 1975 he expressed this pride with a gift - an Epiphone acoustic dreadnaught in a very high level of trim. With its large block fret inlays, elaborate multilayer binding all around, and glossy rosewood back & sides it was easily the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. He held it out to me horizontally with one broad, labor-roughened hand around the neck and the other at
the endpin. I reached to take the guitar and my hands touched his as I gazed upon this gift - this passage to uncountable hours making music, cherishing music, living music, of touching and being touched by others in the sharing.
Dad has been gone for many years. Guitars have come and gone but I still have that Epiphone. My guitars now are far higher quality than that mass-produced laminated wood beast. I understand and appreciate the difference between the Epiphone and, for example, a handcrafted Martin but ... me & this Epiphone - we go way back. I can play the Martin and love those pristine, articulate timbres but only when playing this guitar do I touch my Father’s hands.
May 2013 brought a traumatic eye injury, weeks without employment or even autonomy, and long hours sitting with both eyes closed coping with pain. Idleness and pain fostered worry and fear. When the top cornea specialist at the university hospital began using words like “possible permanent damage” my fears skyrocketed. Surgery has been scheduled. Eye surgery! “Possible permanent damage”! What if my sight never fully recovers? What if I lose my sight completely?
One day, peeking intermittently through one barely-raised eyelid I made my way to the sofa carrying my beloved Epiphone. At that moment I wasn’t even certain that I could play at all. In hindsight that fear seems silly but at the time life was permeated with uncertainty. I rested my cheek on the upper bout and drew a carefully measured breath, stuffing worry out of the way momentarily. After a few tenuous notes, inquisitive chords soon grew into some of my fingerstyle staples. Large position shifts soon came with familiar ease. Music flowed. Comforting, uplifting, familiar music - my music.
My heart! My breath, my music, still safe and sweet. This guitar - my tool as well as user; slave as well as master; at once vehicle, navigator, route, and traveling companion. Lover, friend, core of my self-esteem, cornerstone of my emotions for 38 years - still mine.
Worry faded, and the pain faded with it. So what if do lose my eyesight? I’ll still have music. I’ll still make music, cherish music, live music, be music - even if no one else hears or cares.
I will still have this guitar.
I will still be able to touch my Father’s hands.
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© 2013 Raymond Blowers.
As of December 2013 I am still undergoing procedures and treatment for my right eye. Although I may never again be able to focus well in that eye it does not interfere with my daily life in any significant way. My left eye is undamaged.
My thanks to Michael Smith at Guitar Center in Tucson, Arizona for being the young man's hand model in the photo above.
My thanks to Michael Smith at Guitar Center in Tucson, Arizona for being the young man's hand model in the photo above.
